Mrs. Sharpe was a washed-out woman. Many of the natural and laudable instincts remained, perhaps being fast colors; but a horror of the class to which she now supposed Marian to belong was one which had faded out of her nature. She gave a slightly supercilious look, which fell upon the woman like moonlight on ice, and pursued her inquiries.
"Came from 'Frisco?"
"I came through there. I didn't see anything of the place."
"Whar did yer come from?"
"Philadelphia." The tone was changed. She evidently felt the impalpable rudeness of the faded woman, and knew how to resent it in the same way. More conversation ensued, in the course of which Mrs. Sharpe discovered that Marian had a little money—enough to pay her board for a few months—and that she had come there to find "James Courtney Wilmer."
Mrs. Sharpe had information to give as well as to take, for she knew something of Jim.
"We called him Jim," she said, a little scornfully. "He didn't git no 'Courting' from we."
Poor Marian gave a faint smile. "There might be other James Wilmers," she said. "I wanted to be sure."
Mrs. Sharpe didn't think this could be the one.
"He's a rough, ragged creeter," she said, "and 's had the snakes fur weeks at a time."